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As I’m sitting here contemplating the topic today, it dawned on me that really so many things in life could be categorized as pains in the ass. I’ve dated a few men (once each) who should just be stood up against a wall. They would qualify. But, alas, this isn’t about men. No it’s about the second most dreaded thing after a bad date.

Last Christmas, I gave myself a present: I quit working out. Yes, I abandoned my quest for the perfect ass.

My friends who have known me since Middle School when I climbed on the fitness bandwagon thought about staging an intervention. Thankfully, they let me be.

The whole thing was sort of weird. One day, I got up, put on my workout clothes and just like every other day, I headed to the gym for my marathon session with the Staimaster followed by an hour of throwing some iron around.

I parked the car, turned off the ignition….and sat there, staring at the gym with all its brightly painted pictures of women working out, smiles on their faces, Spandex barely covering their perfect tushes, and…

I like to fly.
Somehow, through the distance of the years and the dissonance of picking up the pieces of a broken life, I forgot.
Fear brought me to flying. Curiously, it turned out that flying was one of the few pursuits perfectly suited to my limited skill set.

A discovery that was a long time coming.
Flying wasn’t something I considered then discarded as not possible for someone like me. No, I’m the possibilities girl—I never see limitations until they jerk me up short… which, in an airplane could be rather dramatic.
Quite simply, flying never hit my radar of possibilities. At least not, until, after a long stint as a single parent, I married a former Navy pilot. I spent the first summer of our marriage in the front seat of an open-cockpit bi-plane breathing exhaust and being scared and exhilarated at the same time. But, in a brief moment of clarity, as we floated up and down the east coast, it dawned on me somewhere over New Jersey that, if my husband had a major medical emergency, odds were I would, too—since I hadn’t a clue how anything in the airplane worked.

So, I get back from what seemed like several decades on the road shilling my latest tome, and the first thing I have to do is go pick up a young woman (a friend of a friend who I met on a plane–my life is like that, okay?) and take her to dinner. At least I think it was dinner–my stomach along with my brain and other important body parts were stuck in a time zone other than the one I found the rest of me in. I don’t recommend that–things can get awkward.

I hop in my car (which probably wasn’t wise) and motored off in the approximately the right direction. A few minutes later, I find myself stopped at a red light and I glance around. A sign catches my eye. In big, bold red letters it announces a contest that is going on at a certain drinking establishment in town–there are MANY.

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Bio:

Allison Brennan

Allison Brennan is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of nearly three dozen romantic thrillers and mysteries, including the Lucy Kincaid series and the Max Revere series. She lives in Northern California with her husband, five children, and assorted pets.